A Macbeth FanFiction
by Kalton
Summary: Something I had to do for school...
1. Note To Reader

**Note To Reader**

This piece of work was originally an assessment task I had to do at school in English. We had been studying the play Macbeth and, after reading it all, we were told to do a fan fiction based on the story and on what we thought the witches would have done next, after the ending of the play. This is what I envisioned would happen. When I was first writing it, I was under a time limit (it properly didn't help that the plan I had written for such a story was… a bit ambitious, you might say?). I had to rush the ending so it would be short, quick and make enough sense to be called "faithful". This version of the story is not the original. This version is one I edited specially for Fan Fiction upload to have more detail, not a rushed ending and a slight bit more dialogue. I do hope you enjoy this piece of work I have created.


	2. An Irish-land Graveyard

**Chapter 1: An Irish-land Graveyard**

"Macbeth's business is complete, with him admitting defeat. Now sisters, where shall we meet? I hope an area no person wants to greet." The first witch questioned the others, whilst standing on a dry mound.  
"What about Ireland? I know an area surprisingly bland!" claimed the second, with tangled hair flying through the rotting winds.  
"Yes... I visualise a person there. A man who is a rightful heir." stated the third, hunched over and gathering the materials grown about her. Fog began to shroud the three weïrd sisters, preparing to deliver them to the land promised by the youngest, the second devil.

This land was a flat, open field and was left barren after the owners left hastily, in fear of being raided by the Scottish Resistance. Also after the owners evacuated, the existence of long, lifeless grass and a grey, ill sky became true to this landscape of what was once beauty. Long months past and attacked the land, causing beams of old wood to rise and ascend; such beams of this kind would break upon even the slightest touch across its shattered bark, making it useless for construction. With the ill sky, came rain of light showers, only to hinder the land from its ability to withstand many mortals' weight. As there was nothing able to live on such drenched soil, there was nothing much to hear except your movement.

"I hear a mortal approaching, sisters!" quietly screamed the third, "The unfortunate soul travelled over rivers!" The man in question was Donalbain, brother to the holy king Malcom. "Why must I stumble upon a desperate-for-help plain?" complained the exasperated man, before coming into contact with the three devils, "Who might want to stand within such a field as this... What do I see? Three hags... This is a sign of bad luck! I'd best take a different journey, a new path to Scotland is what would be advised by any mortal, even fools!"

Before he could turn about, the first sister of the three focused on the male figure's location and called "Donalbain, brother to the throne-holder, you shall become the king without being years older!"  
"Why do you claim such fiction?" replied Donalbain, hastily, cursed by the woman's words.  
"What we see is what will be."  
"Okay. Speak of how this will become true."  
"We cannot state, but people will hate."  
"Hate what? Speak clearly or blades of iron would curse your ridged flesh!" Donalbain, with a movement of his chain-coated arm, grabbed hold of the hilt of a sword, sheathed in leather and silver.  
"A murder would take place, if you decide to race."

Soon after, the creatures vanished, coated in a mist of crimson. The "soon-to-be-king" unsheathed his iron longsword and attempted to slash down the demons the cloud of blood. He was too slow. Realising his attack was futile, he re-sheathed the blade and stood in the gloomy landscape. He was again alone. "A murder?" Donalbain questioned within his faithful skull, before the word fully sank in, "A murder! Who could the target be? I or my brother? I must inform! Wait... Slowly... The hags stated if I race, blood will be spilt. Oh my dear lord, ensure my king receives no wounds across his young body. Amen." blood rushed across his structure within, pouring into every vein to his heart, like rivers to the sea. Donalbain had little time. He must be at Scotland to inform about his confrontation with the devils.


	3. Scottish Land

**Chapter 1: An Irish-land Graveyard**

"Macbeth's business is complete, with him admitting defeat. Now sisters, where shall we meet? I hope an area no person wants to greet." The first witch questioned the others, whilst standing on a dry mound.  
"What about Ireland? I know an area surprisingly bland!" claimed the second, with tangled hair flying through the rotting winds.  
"Yes... I visualise a person there. A man who is a rightful heir." stated the third, hunched over and gathering the materials grown about her. Fog began to shroud the three weïrd sisters, preparing to deliver them to the land promised by the youngest, the second devil.

This land was a flat, open field and was left barren after the owners left hastily, in fear of being raided by the Scottish Resistance. Also after the owners evacuated, the existence of long, lifeless grass and a grey, ill sky became true to this landscape of what was once beauty. Long months past and attacked the land, causing beams of old wood to rise and ascend; such beams of this kind would break upon even the slightest touch across its shattered bark, making it useless for construction. With the ill sky, came rain of light showers, only to hinder the land from its ability to withstand many mortals' weight. As there was nothing able to live on such drenched soil, there was nothing much to hear except your movement.

"I hear a mortal approaching, sisters!" quietly screamed the third, "The unfortunate soul travelled over rivers!" The man in question was Donalbain, brother to the holy king Malcom. "Why must I stumble upon a desperate-for-help plain?" complained the exasperated man, before coming into contact with the three devils, "Who might want to stand within such a field as this... What do I see? Three hags... This is a sign of bad luck! I'd best take a different journey, a new path to Scotland is what would be advised by any mortal, even fools!"

Before he could turn about, the first sister of the three focused on the male figure's location and called "Donalbain, brother to the throne-holder, you shall become the king without being years older!"  
"Why do you claim such fiction?" replied Donalbain, hastily, cursed by the woman's words.  
"What we see is what will be."  
"Okay. Speak of how this will become true."  
"We cannot state, but people will hate."  
"Hate what? Speak clearly or blades of iron would curse your ridged flesh!" Donalbain, with a movement of his chain-coated arm, grabbed hold of the hilt of a sword, sheathed in leather and silver.  
"A murder would take place, if you decide to race."

Soon after, the creatures vanished, coated in a mist of crimson. The "soon-to-be-king" unsheathed his iron longsword and attempted to slash down the demons the cloud of blood. He was too slow. Realising his attack was futile, he re-sheathed the blade and stood in the gloomy landscape. He was again alone. "A murder?" Donalbain questioned within his faithful skull, before the word fully sank in, "A murder! Who could the target be? I or my brother? I must inform! Wait... Slowly... The hags stated if I race, blood will be spilt. Oh my dear lord, ensure my king receives no wounds across his young body. Amen." blood rushed across his structure within, pouring into every vein to his heart, like rivers to the sea. Donalbain had little time. He must be at Scotland to inform about his confrontation with the devils.


	4. Unwanted Greeting

**Chapter 3: Un-wanted Greeting**

"The presence of a man is near. Quickly, me must hide before he is here!" the third screamed to her sisters, whilst they stood in a hill-coated plain. Donalbain, now a newly-made king, was passing on paths of cobble, attempting to calm his nerves with the strong cold of Scotland. "How could I, a nervous lunatic, become king? I not need a jester nor a king's fool; I have myself." Donalbain questioned his land and himself, before noticing three hags in a grouping of bushes.

"Oh... You miserable hags! How dare you curse me along my travels. I despise you three. Damn you! It was a mistake of me to continue down that path in Ireland many days ago. Why did you decide to do business with me?" Donalbain, hiding no anger, shouted towards the hunch-backs in a blinding rage, rarely seen within a man so close to God.  
"We stated the truth to you, and the suffering of you was due." claimed the second witch, clearing her hair of leaves.  
"I fear to, but I must trust you. I have had a stirring of deep scare. Tell me, you three demons, what would become of me?" Donalbain questioned the creatures, ensuring with himself that this is a forbidden method of gaining information, that only a fool (such as himself) would carry out, but stating also to himself that curiosity struck him with a club of mystery.  
"Things are uncertain, but one thing is sure; there is more suffering you will endure." the first witch, with a sharpened tongue, mentioned past the crazed man's ear. "Blood will be dropped by men's knives, further drawing a cursed man's drives" stated the wrinkled third, with a blunt tongue but a sharp wit.  
"A man will fall and a man will rise, and the future will soon realise," the second, long tangle-haired woman screamed out loud, then the three hags connected arms and hands to each other and shouted, before vanishing into a dark green mist.  
"Newer king was told lies, and a newer king thrives?" Donalbain relayed the words as he would do to check his holy blade and spoke quietly to himself, ignoring his setting, "A king will fall? Blood will be dropped by men's knives? A newer king thrives? I must add cover to my back... Extend the time of my soon-to-come end... And who would become my heir in the deathly future? I hold no other relatives' names... Banquo had a son, didn't he? I do believe the child's name is Fleance… He did speak of becoming a new king but... A new king of what? Land? Country? Things are uncertain..." Donalbain, realising his location, continued on his path, cooling down from built-up fear, with a new piece added.


	5. Quick King

**Chapter 4: Quick Lord**

"My king, there must be a mista-"  
"Sorry but is no mistake, you attempted to steal my life! Now you must suffer! Guard! Take this assassin away and slice his throat."  
"Yes, sire" A masked guard spoke with a gravelly voice grabbed the supposed assassin by the hair attached to his scalp and pulled him across the cobbled-rock paths to behind a hut owned by a large, poor family. "My lord!" a scribe rushed towards the frightened-at-heart Donalbain with terrible news at hand.  
"What is it, fellow scribe?" Donalbain questioned.  
"My dear king, we are at an all-time low in the gold, sire. I fear that the kingdom will soon be ruin!"  
"You keep that fear to yourself; I have my own to contemplate. Is this new guard with you?"  
"Yes, he is. He states his name is Greer and also states that-"  
"Bring him here."  
At the king's command, appeared a man, wearing dark clothes and an iron vest, holding a short sword, scraped and cracked at points of the blade. "My will is at your command, my lord." spoke Greer. "Cover my back, Greer. I fear time is at a near end." claimed Donalbain, bleeding water from above his eye-brows. The two, among a group of other protectors, entered a royal guard's hut to discuss matters.

"My lord, are gold supplies are dwindling and, if you keep this reckless habit up, Dunsinane will no longer have anything to use for trading." A scribe from the main stronghold spoke, cramped between lookouts of different sizes.  
"I know this already… However, if I want to keep this fruitless crown, I will need to hire these… soldiers… to stay awake! Out!" shouted Donalbain, red in his expression. The scribe left, in strong haste, dropping important scrolls and papers, across the cobbled ground.  
"Now, sire, what did you want to discuss?" questioned the main guard.  
"I require your group to guard Dunsinane whilst I plot campaigns to earn more wealth into this dying land. Are you sure your men can carry out that operation?" requested Donalbain, now calm, as the king should be.  
"Most certainly, sire. These men are accounted as the best and strongest in the country. What will be our payment?"  
"500 gold for each one of your heads… and if you succeed… an extra 200…"  
"Gladly. I thank you for making business with us. We'll assemble at Dunsinane, ready to greet you."  
"Your welcome. Greer! Follow me along the way to the stronghold."

Before Donalbain could leave the shelter he was within, Greer, after waiting for dark to cover him, struck the fearing king with a blade under his cloak, disguised within leather. The king gave away a gargle of blood and worries, for the blade was aimed at his lung. He then collapsed across the flooring of pebbles and stones, absorbing the king's holy blood, and claiming themselves as his death-bed. Greer was heard of no more. He had used the blanket of darkness to its advantage, sneaking into a mask of black, never sighted by the guards.

Soon after, sentinels came rushing in to the structure, hoping there was a chance of saving him. "I don't think our lord is fully alive. Quickly! Gather the medic!" called one of the guard. Blood coated the soldier's hands and the pebbles below. Time caught up with the king's corpse and caused his body to become unrecoverable. The last droplets of a thick, red liquid came to a close, as the blood-bag of a cadaver emptied. The king was assassinated. The king was dead.


End file.
